


to be forgotten; to never be truly known

by laddybants



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (author is trans), Gender non-conformity, Hand Jobs, M/M, Self-Worth Issues, Trans Jonah Magnus, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, for fun., not in a transphobic way? i am trans, plus some people are gnc and go to costumes parties as such, ugh it's like. crossdressing but i loathe to use that word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24758509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laddybants/pseuds/laddybants
Summary: An incident that took place in the October of 1821, as experienced by one Jonathan Fanshawe
Relationships: (implied robert/jonah), Jonathan Fanshawe/Albrecht von Closen
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	to be forgotten; to never be truly known

**Author's Note:**

> so uh. i don't usually write nsfw stuff? and also it's not really nsfw? i mean it is but like 6k of this is just musings and fun shenanigans like arguing about astronomy and dunking on smirke and self-imposed emotional manipulation and people being gnc and costumes!! that said i use cunt and clit to refer to jonathan's genitals because those are the terms i use for myself when i have to think about it
> 
> simon is called emiliano in this, which is something i am borrowing from [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24359269) which is brilliant + thank you to mia for giving me the fun detail of that one intern making fun of mordechai
> 
> honestly? this is mostly for fun and because it's the only jonah-era thing i have that's long enough to post aaaaand it's only now occurring to me that maybe costume parties weren't a big thing in the 1820s? oh well? also i didn't look up any timelines sorry

Smirke’s inner circle had always been odd. An architect alone is bound to find less than conventional companions, however highly regarded his work is. Art has a tendency to do that to people – set them apart as something ‘other’. But an architect with a vested interest in occultism? His friends, if there were indeed any, would be varied and strange. And the draw of Jonah Magnus alone brings with it men with shaky hands and glassy eyes, all trailing after him.

It hasn’t escaped Jonathan’s notice, of course, that lately he’s found himself becoming one of them. He can see himself mirrored in Barnabas and Albrecht, and sometimes Smirke himself; soft and fond wherever Jonah starts to argue with someone or take him by the arm to point out a guest he particularly dislikes. There have been no such occurrences yet tonight for the simple reason that Jonah isn’t here yet. No other.

Costume parties, also, came as a surprise. Jonathan didn’t picture Smirke as that kind of man, but admittedly he doesn’t know him well enough. Unlike Kempthorne, or Barnabas, Jonathan knows Smirke through Jonah, and not the other way around. Still, he muses, parties of this kind are certainly popular among the upper classes. After all, what better way to engage in debauchery with your companions than to do it not as yourselves?

Not that… not that Jonathan really dressed up for it. He wears a costume, that much is true, but the costume is as much himself as it is fiction. He chose Victor Frankenstein, having loved the book when it was initially published five years prior, and continued to love it all the more since. He will admit that the struggles of Frankenstein singularly appealed to him: the desire to create something new, however horrific, and the horror stemming from his own desire to do so, is one that has plagued him almost his entire life. The taking of parts, too, well… suffice it to say Jonathan didn’t have to deliberately ruin any clothes to achieve the intended effect.

“Did you really soil clothes of your own for this?” asked Barnabas when he entered, dressed as, of all things, a cockerel, with bright red feathers coming out of his hat, a golden-beaked mask and a deep scarlet cravat.

To which Jonathan had replied: “Not at all,” and laughed slightly less than easily.

All of his closest friends except Jonah are sprawled across various chairs or sofas in the library of Smirke’s house now. Mordechai came as himself, rather disappointingly. Jonathan supposes that Mordechai Lukas is scary enough on any day, all seven feet of him, though he would have liked to see the effect magnified by a costume of some sort. The disappointment was soothed somewhat when a young man – one of Smirke’s colleagues – remarked that the costume looked ‘exactly like Mordechai’, right down to his ‘ugly glare’, which had resulted in more than a few stifled laughs and one of the aforementioned glares as the man realised that the Mordechai ‘costume’ was being worn by Mordechai himself.

However, no amount of amusement brought by Barnabas and Mordechai can come close to how Jonathan feels about Albrecht’s attire. When he heard the von Closens would be present, Jonathan was certainly excited. Albrecht was his second closest friend of the group and he felt vastly more comfortable in his company than that of Barnabas Bennett or Mordechai Lukas certainly. The presence of Albrecht guaranteed the presence of scandalous anecdotes and tales of old kings, of ghosts between the trees in an ancient wood, complete with gestures for emphasis so wild that Jonathan would surely have to take the glass out of his friend’s hand before the night was over. Yes, the promise of Albrecht brightened the night considerably.

What Jonathan hadn’t been expecting was his friend’s costume. In hindsight, he should’ve known it would be something slightly lavender, but it goes beyond what Jonathan would have been able to conceive by himself. An hour or so ago, the opening of the front door two floors down had been accompanied by gasps of delight. Jonathan heard fragments of praise: “–so clever – !” “–how _ever_ did you think of that – ?” 

The very next thing Jonathan heard was: “Is Jonah here?” in a heavy German accent, the reply to which he didn’t catch, for he was already making his way downstairs to see his friend.

And what a sight it was! The gasps made sense all at once. Jonathan would’ve gasped himself were it not for the simple fact that all the air fled his lungs at once. 

“Jonathan!” exclaimed Albrecht, and then was on him in a moment, skirt rippling as he moved through the crowds. “It’s wonderful to see you here.” And then, taking Jonathan’s arm in both hands and leaning in, so close that Jonathan could smell wine very faintly: “We’ve come as each other.”

Jonathan took a moment to regain his composure. “I can see that,” he replied measuredly, doing his best to look bemused and failing miserably. 

The effect was marvellous: the creamy colour of the dress compliments the rubies around his neck perfectly, as do the scarlet gloves that nearly reach his shoulders. Curled hair is piled just so atop his head. Albrecht shaved for this, and just behind him Jonathan could see that Carla drew a tiny moustache on her upper lip. They both looked exceedingly pleased with themselves, and though many guests clearly found it amusing, there wasn’t not a touch of mockery in the way they carried themselves. Instead, it rather looked as if some sort of weight had been removed.

“You look wonderful,” Jonathan said sincerely. Albrecht grinned in return, waved Carla goodbye as she all but ran into the next room, and whirled Jonathan around, linking their arms as he did so.

“Is Jonah here?” he asked.

“No, sadly. People have been asking me all evening. General opinion seems to be he won’t show. Though –” with a nod of his head to another of Smirke’s younger assistants in a terrible orange wig and glasses “– it appears we have the next best thing.”

“Well, I hope for his sake then that Jonah doesn’t end up coming. Though for ours… I would prefer if he did.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the costume,” said Jonah dryly. “Everyone else is in the library at the moment.”

Albrecht raised an eyebrow at that. “Everyone?”

“Well, Barnabas Bennett –” a grimace from Albrecht “– and Mordechai Lukas –”

“Mordechai Lukas?”

“It was him that suggested we move to the library.”

“Typical! He’s barely social even when he shows his face! What’s he come as, then?”

“Himself.”

Albrecht faked a gasp. “No! I expect you’re copying _him_ in that case, coming as… yourself with your hair untied?”

“Victor Frankenstein.”

“Ah. Of course. Lead the way then, doctor.”

And the evening turned to night, with all of them clustered in the library, talking incessantly. It’s gone midnight by now, and Jonah hasn’t shown. Jonathan can’t really bring himself to care – if Jonah were here, he’d find them soon enough, and besides – he’s finding himself increasingly more and more distracted as the night wears on. 

Albrecht twirls his empty wine glass between his fingers. He’s sitting just below Emiliano, legs crossed. The dress is just slightly too short, revealing shoes that fit too well to be Carla’s. He’s been talking for a good quarter of an hour, relating some discussion he had with a friend back home. Emiliano, to give him credit, looks fascinated.

“– and of course, the Sun made its trip around the Earth before we could finish properly-”

Jonathan tears his eyes away from his friend’s bejewelled throat and sits forward, brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

“What?”

“You said – the bit about the Sun, say it again.”

“That it made its trip around the Earth?”

It takes a great effort for Jonathan not to drop his glass. “What?” Then, when he gets no reply: “Albrecht, do you think the Sun revolves around the Earth?”

Albrecht looks very confused, which simultaneously assures and angers Jonathan, in that it makes it clear he isn’t playing a joke. “Of course it does! It travels through the sky.”

“It travels through the – it doesn’t!” Jonathan splutters. All other conversation, however quiet, has ceased, and he can feel every eye on him keenly. “ _Galileo_ , Albrecht.”

“Is that supposed to mean something?”

“Do you know who Galileo is?” Albrecht gives no answer, so Jonathan turns to Emiliano. “Tell him he’s wrong.”

Emiliano pretends to think for a moment. “No no, I think Albrecht has a point. The moon revolves around the Earth, yes? And the Sun moves in the same direction, correct? So it’s most logical that they’d both revolve around the Earth. Albrecht is right.”

“No!” Jonathan nearly yells. “It’s scientifically proven that the Earth revolves around the Sun!”

“I say it doesn’t,” retorts Emiliano.

“And what authority do you have?”

Here he flounders, before seeming to remember something. “I’m holding a telescope.”

Jonathan looks at the telescope that Emiliano, confoundingly, is indeed holding, despite his costume being that of a deep-sea diver. He considers the absurdity of this for a moment. “...Holding a telescope doesn’t make one an authority on space.”

“Neither does being a doctor of _medicine_ , dear boy.”

And perhaps the argument would have progressed further if not for the opening of the door and for the first time that evening –

“Jonah!” say multiple people in unison, and Jonathan can’t be sure he isn’t one of them. 

Jonah looks… impressive. ‘Radiant’ might be a fitting word, what with the deep blue of his cloak and the thousands of green beetle wings sewn into it, imitating a peacock’s plumage near perfectly. But radiance implies serenity, and Jonah Magnus looks anything but serene. He looks, for lack of a better word, murderous; and the richness of the blue of his costume makes his eyes look paler than ever, giving them a terrifying, almost death-like quality.

“Yes, good evening,” he says impatiently.

None of the rest of them dare to speak, and all eyes but Jonah’s fall upon Mordechai. Wearily, he sighs. “Did something happen?”

Quick anger flickers across Jonah’s face for the briefest of moments, before being replaced with a carefully neutral expression. “Nothing you need to worry about, no. I’m sure Smirke will be up here shortly, but until then my attention is all yours, gentlemen.”

There’s an immediate and unspoken agreement not to ask precisely why Smirke would be seeking Jonah out, but Jonathan can guess well enough. At present it doesn’t matter much, because everyone comes to life at once, shifting so Jonah can sit down, leaning in closer to him. _Gravitational pull_ , thinks Jonathan. They were both wrong, it seems: the universe revolves around Jonah Magnus and his whims.

Already Barnabas is fawning over Jonah, snapped out of the trance he’d seemed to be in all night – never quite in the room with the rest of them, eyes glassy and hard. Now, it’s as if something in them has melted, all the strings inside of him loosened. It hasn’t escaped Jonathan’s notice that Barnabas only ever seems comfortable when Jonah is present. Failing that, he’ll imitate Mordechai and politely excuse himself at the earliest possible opportunity. But not with Jonah; with Jonah he’s talkative and not afraid of judgement. Albrecht looks much of the same, hands wrapped around _Jonah’s_ arm now, body angled towards _him_.

Jonah sits in the middle of it, acknowledging them as little as he can get away with. Instead he’s looking at Jonathan as if daring him to challenge it or do the same. Both eyes are on Jonathan, and both options would break him. Jonathan takes the coward’s road and remains in his seat. He stops looking at Jonah but he doesn’t feel the eyes leave him. He feels profoundly sick all of a sudden under the heat of Jonah’s stare, but the twisting in his stomach isn’t the familiar discomfort that goes hand in hand with the lust, physical or otherwise, he so often feels with Jonah alone. No, this is more akin to being laid bare, stripped of any protection he’s built over the course of his life. And deep down, Jonathan knows it’s deliberate.

 _Peacock is a fitting costume_ , he thinks, watching the man preen and toss his hair. The room is a thousand times brighter and harsh in its colouring. The edges of Jonathan’s vision have almost darkened as the world spirals out from Jonah and Jonah only.

“Enjoying the party, Jonathan?” Jonah asks, and four more pairs of eyes are on him. Jonathan shifts uncomfortably as a dozen thoughts fight their way to the forefront of his mind: his corset has started to chafe, Albrecht’s hands on his arm, the incessant ticking of the clock in the corner of the room.

“Yes,” he finds himself answering, not entirely of his own volition.

Jonah gives a slow smile. “Good.” He then twists, releasing himself from Barnabas and Albrecht. “Well, it’s been lovely to see you all, but I’m afraid Smirke is on his way here, and will arrive very, _very_ shortly.”

Jonah stands and gives the smallest of nods to Mordechai. “Good morning, shall I say?”

At this, the door is thrown open and in glides Smirke looking more imposing than a man in tights should be able to.

“Ah, Faust?” asks Emiliano, who is ignored.

“Jonah.” 

Jonah doesn’t even have to turn his head; his eyes had been trained on the door for as long as he’d been standing. “Took you a fair while to find me.”

“Can we talk in private for a moment?”

Jonah extends a hand. “But of course,” he says, waving goodbye to the rest of them without looking around.

The moment the door shuts, the effect is gone. The room is darker all at once, and much less warm. Everyone seems to be finally feeling the hour, slower blinks and longer breaths. But at the same time, some kind of pressure has eased behind Jonathan’s eyes. Though he cannot explain it, he feels safer.

Again, the room reshuffles. Barnabas is left along on the cushions of what is now his sofa – though Emiliano perches on the arm – and Albrecht moves over to the decanter, which stands behind Jonathan. Once his glass has been refilled, he, too, sits on the arm of Jonathan’s chair; involuntarily Jonathan wraps his own arm around Albrecht’s waist to steady him.

“Thank you,” he hums, so low that surely only Jonathan can hear. “We won’t be here long, I’m sure. It’s much too late to talk much by now.”

As if on cue, Mordechai gets up. “I’ll take my leave.”

He’s out of the door before any of them can reply. Barnabas sighs very loudly and sinks back into the sofa. 

“Tired?” asks Jonathan.

Barnabas gives a weak smile. “Very much so. I’m afraid I’m not built to last at parties like these.”

There’s a pause, and it’s as if they can all feel the air in the room gently pushing down on their shoulders. “Why,” says Barnabas eventually. “Are you?”

Without thinking, Jonathan leans his head into Albrecht’s side. A hand finds its way into his hair, and his eyes start to sting with the resolve to stay awake. “Not horribly. I’ve gone many a night without sleep.”

Barnabas stares at nothing in particular and nods, lips pressed tight. “As have I. That said, I should like tonight to not number among them, so I think here is where I retire.

“And me,” adds Emiliano, with a wink in Jonathan’s direction that is far from subtle, eyes flicking over to Albrecht momentarily. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

“Goodnight to the both of you!” Albrecht says more cheerily than should be possible. Jonathan opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He hears the door shut with a soft click and the muffled voices of their departed friends behind them. 

Albrecht leans backwards until he’s no longer sitting on the arm of the chair and is instead seated in Jonathan’s lap. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“No. Of course not.” Jonathan finds himself smiling, at ease and enjoyably so. “Who could leave a face like that?”

“You’re the only person it works on,” replies Albrecht. This is true – many a time when Jonathan had stayed at Albrecht’s estate he’d been kept from retiring by warm, earnest brown eyes and the silent plea they held.

“I don’t believe that. You charm everyone you meet.”

“Perhaps.” Albrecht leans in closer and one of his curls brushes Jonathan’s cheek. “But perhaps you are easier to charm than most.”

Once again, Jonathan loses the ability to breathe properly. But he’s no fool; he’s been propositioned before and can recognise it most times. He knows enough, and in this case enough would be a bed. And so he whispers: “Not here. We should find somewhere more private first.”

The best thing about Smirke’s townhouse is the size of it. It’s unusually large for a house in London, flaunting status and eccentricity at every possible opportunity. Narrow corridors, doors shaped more like arches, mirrors that run down the length of a passageway. The floor feels deliberately even, as if it takes a great amount of effort to keep it that way. All of it is inconsistent, down to the type of wood used from one table to another. Aesthetically, it’s atrocious, but the house has one saving grace: the sheer number of bedrooms. 

Jonathan counts at least five as they all but run through the corridors, hands clasped, laughing like they’re boys again. It’s been a fair while since he’s done something like this; and though he may have thought about it from time to time, Albrecht was never a tangible possibility, never anything more than a half-hearted fantasy. Jonathan likes him more than well enough, second only to Jonah and even then the line blurs. Now here they are, the both of them, the last ones left of all their friends.

The nearest room has a green door and a small window slightly above head height, shaped like an eye. It’s close and looks like it locks, but it’s also occupied. Jonathan catches a glimpse of Jonah’s auburn hair as he passes, and hears Smirke’s voice, slightly hoarse. 

Jonathan doesn’t know what they’re still doing in there, but he has an idea. Two, actually, though they so often go hand in hand where Jonah is concerned. It seems as if he gets just as much pleasure from the theoretical as the physical, and there really is no better person than Robert Smirke to discuss things that, for all they both may claim otherwise, do not exist.

Not that it matters at present, because Jonathan is being pulled along by a beautiful man, and how could he fear anything with that in mind? 

In the end they settle on a room with a red door that’s swelled into its frame with the cold. It shuts easily, though, and is sturdy enough that it doesn’t seem like they’d need to lock it. All noise from outside, however quiet, ceases. They won’t be heard either, it seems.

The room is large, but in a way that suggests it may collapse at any moment. It’s warm from both the dying fire and the thick carpet, but not uncomfortably so. The walls, however, seem to ripple and pulse with life, painted a deep red with a pattern that shifts under Jonathan’s gaze. The curtains are drawn, and it occurs to Jonathan that they almost look like skin.

Jonathan barely has time to take it in properly, because in an instant Albrecht takes his face in his hands and pulls Jonathan in, kissing him with all the fervour of a man starved. Albrecht has a hand in Jonathan’s hair and an arm around his waist and it’s all Jonathan can do not to collapse there and then. He steels himself and holds on, kisses back as if he’s never kissed anyone before. It’s slightly clumsy and more than once their noses get in the way, resulting in a laugh as they shift and try again. 

It’s a surprise when the bed hits the back of Jonathan’s legs, and it’s the surprise he blames it on when he topples backwards, pulling Albrecht with him. They stop, air momentarily knocked out of them. Jonathan turns his head and stares at Albrecht, hair now wonderfully ruined, pink around the lips. His eyes travel downwards to the dress. Jonathan raises an eyebrow.

“It ties in the back,” says Albrecht eventually.

All the years of wilfully steading his hands and being precise flee Jonathan as he undoes the ties. It takes a moment to find the right strings because Albrecht has decided to start kissing him again, sucking hard on his neck this time. Jonathan bites down on his tongue to stop himself from crying out and stops his mind from wandering to the marks he’ll leave.

“Surely it’s not that difficult,” Albrecht murmurs between kisses. “Your work depends on your hands, does it not?”

“You’re not helping,” pants Jonathan. “Stop moving so much.”

This has the opposite effect; Albrecht kisses him harder, moving slowly but steadily downwards. Jonathan lets go with one of his hands and gently nudges Albrecht away, tilting his head upwards and guiding their lips together once more. The distraction keeps Albrecht still for a moment, and Jonathan takes the opportunity gladly to centre himself around his lover and finally, _finally_ , unloose the ribbon at the back of the dress. With a triumphant laugh, he slips his hand underneath the dress and unties the bows under each knee much more easily now. Albrecht kicks his shoes off, hands still in Jonathan’s hair.

Jonathan slides his hands upwards, marvelling to himself at the way Albrecht melts under his touch. He’s managed to manoeuvre them both so that he’s on top, Albrecht just touching the headboard, hair spilling onto the pillow.

“You’re certain about this?” asks Jonathan, pulling back little more than an inch.

“Yes,” replies Albrecht breathlessly. “Yes, yes, _please_ , Jonathan.”

Jonathan has a hand on his cock now, trying his best to keep his touch silken and gentle. He thumbs the tip, a motion he’s done on himself many a time – though in a very different place indeed – and Albrecht whimpers sweetly.

“Don’t tease me, _liebling_ , please–” he starts, but the end of the word ‘please’ dissolves and instead becomes a moan and Jonathan tightens his grip more-than-slightly and works faster. He’s practical, yes, but he knows from many encounters like this what feels good for other men. Jonathan knows how to pleasure someone without revealing himself in the process.

He’s pushed the dress almost entirely up and in the middle of sucking bruises onto Albrecht’s torso. It’s payback for the marks he’ll no doubt have to hide underneath his collar in the morning; but it’s slowly becoming less about revenge and more about feeling the rise and fall of the other man’s chest, hearing his quickened heartbeat, seeing his skin flushed pink and trembling. It’s almost intoxicating, and somewhere deep inside of him Jonathan understands why Jonah does this sort of thing so often.

He doesn’t dare ask about Jonah, not now. He knows the answer to the unasked question anyways: Jonathan is a fine substitute, talented even, but the whole display – clothes, jewels, even a slightly altered manner, coquettish – wasn’t intended for him.

Is he settling? Jonathan bites down on Albrecht’s nipple and basks in the noise it elicits as he considers the idea. Funnily enough, he doesn’t think he is. The first thing that comes to mind is the warm, earnest brown of Albrecht’s eyes and the way he smiles with his whole face. And suddenly Jonathan’s whole chest is full of something very warm and very dangerous, and for the first time in a long time he wants to do more than just what’s necessary, getting nothing in return. He wants…

It’s been such a long time since Jonathan has felt safe enough to want another man’s fingers inside of him. He doesn’t dare want more.

He knows he can’t have it either, but he can have the next best thing, which is Albrecht underneath him, moaning his name over and over. Jonathan did that. He’s making Albrecht feel good. If nothing else, he can do that. 

And it’s with that thought that he quickens the movements of his hands and lifts his head to look at Albrecht as he tips over the edge, completely incoherent and flushed all over. 

“That was… impressive,” pants Albrecht. “You’re incredible.”

Jonthan smiles slowly and slips a finger into his mouth, savouring the taste. It’s the closest thing he has to pleasure. If not the feeling in his gut, he can have the salt on his tongue, like honey on his lips.

Until Albrecht says: “Is there nothing you want?”

And Jonathan's mask slips, very slightly.

“You can tell me if there is,” Albrecht continues. “I owe you that much, at least.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I want to, then.” Albrecht sits up and cups Jonathan’s cheek. “I want you to feel satisfied.”

The world starts to move too fast, and Albrecht’s hand skims over his shirt and comes to rest with fingers splayed across Jonathan’s stomach. Jonathan is suddenly very thankful that he kept his own clothes on, and that he hadn’t neglected to pad out the empty space in his trousers before he came.

“I’m satisfied if you are,” he says, but it’s unconvincing.

Albrecht pulls back and Jonathan can see genuine concern written on his friend’s face. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

It’s not that Jonathan thinks Albrecht will hurt him. Jonathan is almost certain he wouldn’t tell anybody either: a very specific sort of man attends a costume party looking free in a dress, and that’s not a decision made by someone who doesn’t know the consequences. Jonathan trusts Albrecht, he really does, it’s just… He spends all his time checking himself and making sure his manner is correct and wondering if things such as his hands reveal him. And it’s only Jonah who knows, and Jonah is like him. Albrecht decidedly isn’t, which means he wouldn’t understand.

Unless… “Tell me, Albrecht, have you ever, um, done a thing like this with Jonah?”

It’s a risk. It’s a risk to Jonah and himself, and if Albrecht says no Jonathan will leave it and find Jonah in the morning and explain and apologise.

But Albrecht doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say yes, either, but something softens. “You’re like him, aren’t you?”

There’s nothing in his tone to suggest it’s shameful, but Jonathan closes his eyes anyways. The room is incredibly quiet when all he can see is blackness. The world rises and falls with his own chest.

Albrecht takes Jonathan’s face and gently tilts it upwards so they’re level, and Jonathan opens his eyes to somebody who cares about him, who isn’t going to hurt him at all. In fact, the intention seems to be exactly the opposite, no longer solely about lust and instead honest and careful. All at once, Jonathan feels loved.

“We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,” Albrecht whispers.

Jonathan could give up here, relent and stay safe. “...It isn’t an issue for you?”

“Not at all, _liebe_. You’re a man, are you not?” Jonathan nods. “Being such a man as yourself is no issue, not ever.”

Jonathan sits in the sentiment. He’s never been told anything like that, not even from Jonah, who cares too little for reassurances. He’s safe. He’s loved.

Albrecht can clearly see the last of Jonathan’s defences come down. “With that in mind, is there anything you want? Anything at all?”

“The same as I gave you, really,” Jonathan replies. It’s enough.

Wordlessly Albrecht pulls off one of his gloves with his teeth. As soon as it’s off, he undoes the front of Jonathan’s trousers and works on the other hand.

“Do you need me to-” 

“I’m perfectly capable of undoing a man’s trousers, Jonathan.” Albrecht smirks with the air of someone who’s done it many a time. Indeed, he’s more than adept, and in a matter of seconds the need for Jonathan to help is gone entirely.

“Do you want to keep any of this on?” asks Albrecht, gesturing to – well, all of Jonathan. 

Feeling slightly silly, Jonathan shrugs off his coat and tosses it across the room, then begins unbuttoning his waistcoat. “Can I perhaps keep my shirt and trousers on? Or will that make it difficult?”

“Not at all,” replies Albrecht, pushing his hand between Jonathan’s skin and the fabric as if to demonstrate. The padding is nudged slightly to the side as Albrecht’s fingers curl inwards, cool against Jonathan’s cunt. Jonathan is suddenly very thankful that Albrecht’s nails are always bitten down, a nervous habit that he’s fondly remarked upon more than once. Now, however, it means that everything touching Jonathan is soft.

Albrecht’s other hand is wrapped around his waist, anchoring Jonathan. He only exists in his lover’s hands; the rest of him becomes sweet and intangible, air in his throat and tight heat in his gut as Albrecht works a finger inside, gradually easing Jonathan open. His thumb steadily rubs circles into Jonathan’s clit and oh, he _has_ done this before, Jonathan can _tell_.

He bites back a moan as the second finger goes in, unsure what to do with his hands. He settles for resting one on the small of Albrecht’s back and the other grasping his hair. It’s almost embarrassing how close Jonathan is, but he was already close when the first finger went in, and now with – oh god – three, every nerve is aflame where their skin touches.

It doesn’t take much more for Jonathan to finish, all but sobbing as he does, and burying his head in the crook of Albrecht’s neck. They stay like that for a while, just breathing each other in. When they lie back down, sheets pooling around them like blood, it’s Jonathan that cups the back of Albrecht’s head as if to steady it, hold it against his chest and keep him there forever. 

Albrecht falls asleep first. Jonathan doesn’t move, even though his neck is at a slightly painful angle. Instead he combs his fingers through Albrecht’s hair, carefully teasing out the last of the curls. He can almost imagine it’s always like this. That they do this every night; not the lovemaking, but the comforting aftermath, like Jonathan always falls asleep with Albrecht’s head resting upon his chest.

He falls asleep, and dreams of fleeting figures in too-short dresses and beds that threaten to eat the sleepers and wide, icy eyes looking out from the face of a bird.

Jonathan wakes first, blinking and bewildered in the light softened by the curtains. They’re much thinner than he’d thought they were last night, and though it’s October, so the sun rises later, he’s still almost shaken awake by it. The air feels thicker in the room now, but that’s partly from the weight on his chest.

His hands are still resting in Albrecht’s hair. He looks very serene at a glance, but Jonathing can see his eyes darting back and forth behind his eyelids as his hands curl tighter around Jonathan. It doesn’t hurt, though, because nobody can really hurt you while they’re asleep, and Albrecht is still enough that Jonathan isn’t worried.

He’s gracious enough to ignore the little gasp Albrecht makes as he shudders back to life, immediately settling further into Jonathan and humming contentedly, whatever dream he might have had forgotten in an instant.

“ _Guten morgen_ ,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the inside of Jonathan’s wrist.

“And to you,” replies Jonathan easily. “Sleep well?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Wonderfully with you here.”

It’s a very well told lie, and besides, Jonathan would much rather believe it. He guides Albrecht upwards so their faces are level and briefly drinks in the combination of sleep-soft eyes and long, dark lashes parting to look at him. What a thing to wake up to! For a single, fleeting moment, he’s incredibly jealous of Carla, and he once again entertains the thought of giving it all up – his job, his status, _himself_ – to pretend to be a man’s wife. It wouldn’t hurt any less, he reasons.

Albrecht can tell. Of course he can; he’s always been good at deciphering people in a way Jonathan decidedly isn’t. “Is something wrong?”

“No.” Jonathan shakes his head as if to banish the fantasy. “Not at all.”

Looking unconvinced but seemingly not wanting to cross a line, Albrecht doesn’t say anything further on the matter, instead softly kisses Jonathan’s forehead, lingering a moment longer than maybe would be permitted. But then again – what is permitted? What rules could possibly accompany the time spent in such a way? There is no manifesto detailing love like this and its endeavors, only that it should be kept secret and be done with as much of their hearts as they’ll allow.

Jonathan doesn’t say any of this, however. They both already know it. They live and will keep living, unable to pull free of the various homes they make for themselves in other people.

“We ought to get up, I think. It’s late in the morning.” Jonathan rolls out of bed, unable to lie there a second longer lest he ruin his facade further.

“How could you possibly know that?” Albrecht tucks his arms behind his head, almost but not quite smirking. Jonathan rolls his eyes and gestures to the light behind the curtains. “Ah, but that means precious little. Show me a _clock_ , doctor.”

There are no clocks in the room, strangely enough. The walls and cabinets are bare, wet red and white respectively. “I don’t need a clock,” returns Jonathan after a moment of looking for one. “I know what time the sun rises well enough.”

“You and I have a very different idea of late, then, if you rise with the sun.”

“I do in autumn, yes. Often before it, actually. Some of us have to work for our fortunes.”

“What a demanding master you serve!”

The tone is light, but the turn of phrase seems odd to the both of them. It takes a few seconds of silence for Jonathan to remember hearing Jonah say it more than once to Mordechai.

Sensing he’s lost, Albrecht finally sits up in the bed. “I don’t have any clothes for the morning.”

Jonathan can’t help smiling at the way he says it, tentative and almost embarrassed. It’s endearing, in a way.

“I can’t help you there, unfortunately. I only have what I’m wearing now, and I need it so I can continue doing so.” Only now does Jonathan consider his attire, crumpled and dirty as it is. It had been fitting last night, but it’s slightly inappropriate in the light of the morning. It’s true that he has nothing, however, so he has no choice but to keep it on. “Nothing at all, Albrecht?”

Albrecht shakes his head. Again, it’s sweet and pretty, doe-eyed and half awake.

“You’ll just have to wear the dress again,” says Jonathan, trying extremely hard to keep the smile out of his voice.

“And that pleases you, does it?”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Well, in that case–” Albrecht swings his legs over the bed and picks up the dress, pulling it over his head. It still doesn’t sit perfectly; it hadn’t last night, not really, and it certainly doesn’t now, not crumpled and untied.

“Do you want help with it?” asks Jonathan somewhat sweetly.

“I can tie a bow by myself, thank you.”

Jonathan watches as Albrecht does exactly that, with a familiar ease, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. “How are you so good at that?”

“It’s somewhat easier when it’s the only thing you have to focus on.”

“Is that a subtle nod to me being preoccupied last night?” Jonathan loops his arm through Albrecht’s, both of them dressed now. “You were distracting me on purpose.”

Albrecht smiles. “Maybe so. Shall we?”

And the two of them leave the room arm in arm, bed unmade and door unshut behind them.

There are already people in the dining room when they enter. Smirke sits at the head of the table, furthest from the door, face stony and unreadable. Jonah looks quite the opposite, all colour and animation as he talks to Emiliano. He’s very pleased with himself, and keeps sneaking glances at Smirke when Emiliano is distracted. It occurs to Jonathan that Jonahmust keep some clothes here, as his outfit is entirely different from last night. It’s much more respectively coloured and very neat.

“Good morning!” he calls as they enter. “I wondered when we’d be seeing you both.”

Jonathan flushes and drops Albrecht’s arm. “Yes, well,” he says, but doesn’t finish, and slides into the seat next to Barnabas. 

“Albrecht!” comes another voice from across the room. Carla runs to her husband in a flurry of noise and motion and starts talking in hushed German. “ _Wir sollten uns wahrscheinlich wieder umziehen_?”

Albrecht nods, tight lipped, and they leave the room. Jonathan tries not to watch them as they go.

“Sleep well?” inquires Emiliano good-naturedly.

“Hm? Oh, yes. A-and you?”

Emiliano opens his mouth to respond but is cut off by Jonah. “May I ask what room you stayed in?”

Once again, Jonathan squirms under his friend’s gaze. It’s not as intense as it had been last night, but it’s still calculating and almost hungry.

“It was one on the second floor I believe? It had a red door, if that helps.”

Jonah nods to himself as if what Jonathan said means anything at all, and resumes his earlier discussion with Emiliano seamlessly.

Idly Jonathan wonders if Barnabas spent the night with anyone. He likely didn’t, as it’s no surprise that he has eyes only for Jonah, predisposed to both flattery and jealousy when Jonah is involved. And besides, he looks too cheerless to have filled the cavity where Jonah should have been. Jonathan is sure that their expressions must be opposite, because everything he feels at present has a lively undercurrent of ecstasy accompanying it.

Before Jonathan can attempt to strike up a conversation with the man to his left, the von Closens re-enter, nestled in each other and wearing their own clothes again. This seems to please Smirke somewhat, as he gives a small hum of approval. The two of them sit next to each other, hands intertwined. Jonathan feels an acute pang of jealousy, and the sea inside of him calms.

Breakfast passes quietly after that, as neither him nor Barnabas wish to engage in conversation. They’ve never had too much common ground, what with Barnabas’s latent squeamishness and Jonathan’s tendency to ramble when in unfamiliar company. Among friends he’s pleasant and charming enough to survive, but he isn’t close with Barnabas, and the man is usually quiet with anybody who isn’t – well, Jonah. It’s not that Jonathan _dislikes_ Barnabas, he just doesn’t really… like him all that much.

It takes a slight effort to eat, because Jonathan’s appetite appears to have fled him. He does, though, slipping back into his normal practicality, which has long since stopped being something he has to put effort into and instead has become as much a part of him as his hands, or his hair. He has to eat to retain his energy, however little the thought appeals to him. He has to talk to maintain the approval of others, and he has to accept passion whenever it comes. These are facts of his existence more than they’re choices; they are what sustains him and what keeps him safe.

But then again, there’s dirt on far too many of his clothes and the blood never really stopped tainting his hands, so maybe safety was never an option.

Albrecht and Carla take their leave after breakfast is over, saying they promised to visit an old friend, and that they wanted to see an exhibition, and – this goes unspoken – Smirke has stopped being hospitable by now, and is slowly verging upon hostile. Specific as his interests may be, he’s never fully approved of anything too queer as long as Jonathan has known him, however much he holds the same desires himself. Jonathan, too, is beginning to shrink underneath his unspoken judgement, but the von Closens have made themselves much more apparent than he would ever dare.

Before they leave, Carla takes Jonathan’s hand and tells him that he simply must visit them sometime, whenever he wants. _She knows_ , Jonathan thinks, but there’s a distinct glimmer in her eye that Jonathan would like to believe is approval.

Right as Albrecht is putting on his coat, Jonathan decides that to hell with it, they can think what they want. “Will I be seeing you again while you’re in London?” he asks quietly.

“If I can, yes.”

And the two of them wave goodbye to the rest of the morning stragglers, and then the door closes, taking them with it.

All at once Jonathan can feel everyone’s eyes on him. Panic starts to swell in his chest, and he keeps his head down as he crosses the room again. 

Surprisingly, Jonah intervenes. He doesn’t revel in it, he doesn’t ask anything further, he doesn’t pry. Instead, he sits down next to Jonathan and hands him a ribbon. 

“For your hair,” he says after a momentary blank stare from Jonathan. “I thought you might want to tie it back again. You know, I don’t know why you don’t just cut it. It’d look much more… respectable, shall we say?”

Jonathan appreciates the intent, he really does, especially coming from a similar perspective to his. But his hair was the one thing his mother always praised – so thick! so soft! – and he could never bring himself to cut it all off, not even when he left her forever.

Jonah seems to sense this, and shakes his head airily. “Just a suggestion. I don’t dictate what you do.”

“Thank you, Jonah,” replies Jonathan, and he means it. Any discomfort he felt last night is forgotten, and replaced with the softened image of the man next to him. Jonah knows him better than anyone else; he understands him in a way that a man like Albrecht never can. He’s not loved, perhaps, but he’s cared for, and kept safe, and it’s as much as Jonathan deserves. What could he want, when he has Jonah’s affection? What else could he possibly need? After all, there’s nothing to be found in brown-eyed, brave men that he doesn’t already have in Jonah. His needs are more than met, and it matters very little that love will become an afterthought.

**Author's Note:**

> time for things that were implied but didn't properly make it in: there are 14 bedrooms and they're themed; jonathan and albrecht fucked in the flesh room; carla IS a lesbian; i personally don't like barnabas bennett all that much? sorry to barney stans; in the first draft of this albrecht had stays (short early corset) on but that didn't make it in; robert smirke is a gay homophobe apparently
> 
> anyway kudos and comments appreciated as always and thank you for reading!


End file.
